


Crumble

by timeladyleo



Series: Fandot Creativity [11]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:49:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeladyleo/pseuds/timeladyleo
Summary: Cinnamon always made Carolyn think of autumn.Adapted from a shorter piece written for CN.





	Crumble

Cinnamon always made her think of autumn. 

 

It was the apples that fell, and bruised, but still edible if only by worms. The apple tree in the garden had been old and tall, as old as the world and as tall as her father had been to her child’s eyes. The apple tree had been a place to climb and hide from Ruth when her sister had screamed at her for daring to try and borrow books, or toys, or even thinking about it. Ruth truly believed that older meant better, and their mother had agreed.

That tree was a haven too from their father, when Ruth inevitably told him how Carolyn had been awful to her by trying to steal or break her things. Ruth knew how to make a tantrum look good, and how to get whatever she wanted by it. At five, it was sweets; by fifteen it was making sure Carolyn knew her place. She’d always send their father out to the garden to go and make sure Carolyn never committed a crime against her again. 

He found her there, always, and pretended to tell her off, while instead he inspected some apples and told her he’d make an apple crumble. It was winter that took him, in the end, after one last, golden autumn. 

 

It was the falling leaves that streamed like honey from the trees, along rivers of molten bronze, sad and beautiful. The first autumn that Arthur could remember was one with Carolyn stood in the kitchen, chopping apples with her fingers covered in flour, shaking. He’d always missed it then, how furiously she cleaved the apples in half. He just remembered toddling up to her, and opening his mouth to help. 

He had never figured out if he had invented Carolyn’s smile as she put a whole apple in his mouth, but he liked to remember it like that anyway. Of course, it had been too big, but he’d given it his best go. He thought he could remember laughter. He definitely remembered how cinnamon and flour smelt when it went up your nose and made you cough and made you certain for a split second that this was the end of the world. 

And though she hadn’t said much, he remembered his mother letting him help to sprinkle the crumble over the apples. This was an important task, so he had concentrated extra hard on not getting it wrong. He already knew a thing or two about consequences for getting things wrong, but it would take him a few more years yet to put two and two together and realise why Carolyn hadn’t smiled as the crumble came out of the oven. 

As he had gorged himself as much as he could, Carolyn had just sat, staring out of the window as though apples were going to hold her together. 

 

It was the cardigans made of 99% wool and 1% other that managed to avoid moths with a dust layer every year. She shook them out, and Herc sneezed, and Snoopadoop sneezed. She laughed at them. Every day, these days, she seemed to find something or someone to laugh at. More often than not, it was Herc and all his stupid habits, stupid allergies, and how stupidly easy he found it to express himself. That was a skill she’d never had, but she was getting better. Slowly. There was no need to go any faster than that. 

The first autumn with Herc was the first one in years that hadn’t had Gordon’s threats, aeroplane related or otherwise. He hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone that year. It was the first autumn in years where she didn’t dread the effort that Arthur put into her birthday, trying so hard to make it happy that he just made it an ordeal. She’d told him many times not to bother, but she figured he was compensating for something. This year, he’d stopped after the flowers.

This autumn just was. There was no overthinking to it at all. 

Arthur was spilling cinnamon and sugar over the floor and counters, butter smeared on his hands but a crumble in the oven and a grin on his face. Carolyn had been hesitant to let him near the sharp knives, but he had promised to be extra careful, and Herc had offered to supervise. Somehow she couldn’t deny them, not when Arthur proudly told Herc that he was going to make his mum’s recipe. 

She had watched them both anyway. Herc was still not used to living with Arthur, which was an entirely separate affair to just knowing him. Arthur had a system in the house, and in no place more than the kitchen. She had to give Herc credit for just allowing Arthur to boss him about, and spill flour all down his black trousers. A split second of fear had broken out over Arthur’s face, but Herc had laughed faster than Arthur could apologise. Soon they’d made a mess everywhere, but it didn’t matter. 

No mess mattered when they could smile, and the sun could shine through the window, spreading an orange tinge over the walls. It wasn’t the prettiest crumble Carolyn had ever seen, or the tastiest she’d ever eaten, but superlatives were for perfectionists, and she had never been perfect. This was pretty close, though. She was happy with being this close.


End file.
